


battered hulls and broken hardships

by hellostarling



Series: leviathan and lonely [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Banter, Fluff and Angst, M/M, hopefully there will be porn in the next bit, idk what genre this follows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellostarling/pseuds/hellostarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone always says Bond is an enigma, but for the life of him, he cannot fathom the numbers that infinitely multiply into Q, or the blush he’s trying so hard to hide, or this <i>friendship</i> business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	battered hulls and broken hardships

**Author's Note:**

> I've been agonizing over this for AGES, and I figure I'd better just post it before I drive myself crazy. No major warnings—just Bond being emotionally constipated and Q being a sad puppy in general.

X

The intel is rotten from the start, but it’s the lack of properly communicated information that truly mucks everything up. It’s not entirely Q’s fault—but it’s _mostly_ Q’s fault. Bond will never say it out loud, because the dressing down from M will be plenty to be going on with. If Bond threw in his own reprimand, Q might break cleanly in two. Bond normally enjoys snapping people in half (especially if he’s been shot in his bum shoulder), but with Q, it would be like kicking a starved baby animal.

Regardless, Bond is still _very_ shot, and bleeding all over a new car in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, Eastern Europe. His collarbone is definitely split, his blood hot and quick, and one of the men from the retrieval crew is shouting at HQ while he applies enough pressure to make Bond feel as though he’s suffocating. Gunfire echoes, engines roar.

“Hold this!” he yells at Bond, guiding his hand to the tangle of sweaters stemming the bloodflow. Bond holds them there, for a moment, before his fingers go numb. “God damn it— _hold this_ , 007!”

“You aren’t in charge,” Bond mutters. The indignity of being rescued sits poorly with him.

He holds the sweaters while the other agent points and shoots, points and shoots, and screams follow after them as the car giving chase suddenly careens away, both front tires blown.

“He came out of nowhere,” Q’s voice says helplessly in his ear. “I don’t understand it.”

“You fucked up,” Bond says—not even meant to be accusatory, just a general observation—and it’s the final word he’ll say about it, ever.

“I did.” Q sounds so sad.

_He’s never going to forgive himself for this_ , Bond thinks.

X

Bond doesn’t even almost die. Not even close. It’s rather disappointing, after all the fuss. He spends some time in a foreign hospital with nobody to keep him company, and it’s three weeks and a minor surgery later before he’s given leave to return to London. He spends the entire flight lying down, greatly enjoying the gentle high of his painkillers. 

He’s debriefed at HQ, and he’s spectacularly unhelpful, since M is continuously trying to get him to name exactly what went wrong.

“You didn’t know he was after Kauslaukas, as well?” M asks. “You didn’t notice him following you?”

“Well, clearly not,” Bond says. “He did _shoot_ me.”

M rolls his eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh. He’ll be over it soon enough, but for now, this whole thing is one massive migraine. Word on the street is other agents are working in overdrive to finish Bond’s botched mission. He’d shot the target, all right, and gotten the files, but then everything went to hell and somebody shot _him_ and stole everything right back. Bond doesn’t even want to know. It’s not his problem anymore.

“And were you, or were you not, given ample warning about—”

“M, I really haven’t got time for this,” Bond says tiredly. “I didn’t have the proper information and we both know that. You wanted me debriefed, I am debriefed. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go recuperate somewhere that isn’t in a fucking glass room.”

He’s up and away, pushing off the table and tilting slightly. He is never, ever going to admit how badly his shoulder hurts. He boxes it away, like he does everything else.

“Recuperate? Don’t you mean drink yourself into a stupor?”

Bond smiles tightly. “No, don’t worry, I’ve got painkillers for that.”

“You’re going back to your flat.”

“I still have one? You haven’t sold it yet?”

M ignores him. “Another three weeks, and then maybe I’ll think about letting you start working again. And not in the field, either. Believe it or not, you do actually have to do what I tell you. You’ve got physical therapy three times a week.”

“You’re kidding,” Bond deadpans.

“Oh, I’m sorry, maybe you’ve forgotten what happened last time you were seriously injured and didn’t receive proper medical attention—and then, to top it off, you were cleared for duty _far_ too soon.”

“In your opinion,” Bond says lightly, but with an edge of danger, because he doesn’t like M’s implication.

“But if you’d rather be sent directly into the field and miss a shot because you have no range of motion, by all means, 007, go right ahead,” M says. “Lord knows your quick death would save me some grief.”

Bond’s focus wanders and he quickly loses track of this whole conversation. M may want to be rid of him, but Bond’s also the most valuable asset M’s got, and everyone knows it. There are much more worrisome things, like Q, perched delicately on the edge of a table in the next office, hands cupped around a mug of tea, and pointedly avoiding Bond’s gaze. M starts saying something, but Bond cuts him off.

“Excuse me, _ma’am_ ,” he says, slamming the door quickly enough to cut off M’s shout.

Once Q sees him coming, he nearly drops his tea in his effort to appear preoccupied. He spins on his heel and busies himself with the nearest computer, typing furiously and summoning fishnets of numbers and code.

“Is this a bad time?” Bond says idly.

“007!” His fake surprise is practiced but pathetically executed. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Stiff.” Face impassive, he makes himself appear as non-threatening as possible—that is to say, still very threatening, but clear that he doesn’t mean it. “Shouldn’t you be asking about the debriefing rather than my ever-fluctuating state of health?”

“Would that be physical or mental health?”

“You’ve memorized my file,” Bond says. “You tell me.” 

Q shrugs. He never looks up, but his eyes dart back and forth, calculating, calculating.

“Is there something wrong? Has your tea gone cold?” It’s meant to be teasing, but it ends up stinging a bit.

“Don’t torture me about this,” Q says.

And that isn’t what Bond wanted to do, at all. “Not my intention,” Bond says. “You’re torturing yourself enough as it is.”

“Bond. I’m sorry.”

Bond huffs impatiently. “Don’t.”

“It was my fault.”

“Your fault that an agent was shot in the field while tracking down an international assassin? That’s remarkable. You’ve managed to take all the credit.”

“I’m supposed to help you, and I didn’t,” Q says, quiet and guilty, like Bond doesn’t already know, like he needs to be _reminded_.

“For God’s sake, I didn’t come here for an apology. You are ridiculous.” 

Q slumps down into his chair and spins in a neat circle. “Then what _do_ you want?”

“I’ve become accustomed to you talking my ear off. Maybe I’m lonely.” 

With adorable sincerity, Q glares at him. “I thought you were coming over to fire me.”

Bond almost laughs. “Why on earth would I do that? Where else am I going to get my exploding pens?”

“Hmm,” Q says, slightly mollified, “you haven’t got the clearance, anyway.”

“Well, that’s because I haven’t seduced M yet. Give me some time.”

“Oh, nice to see your sparkling humor wasn’t damaged in the tussle.”

“Never.” The lines around Bond’s eyes crinkle, like tissue.

It’s the hint of a smile that must do it. Q loosens, piece by piece. It’s a great relief to both of them.

“Shouldn’t you be lying down somewhere?” Q says casually.

“Yes, I should, I’m terribly hurt. How dare you keep me so long?” He walks away, the hand of his good arm buried in his pocket, and over his shoulder he tosses, “Honestly, Q, where are your manners?”

On the drive home, Bond doesn’t hit a single red light.

X

The next three weeks are spent in utter, drunken boredom. Physical therapy is hell on earth. He would actually rather be shot again, for the millionth time. The doctor and therapists are all terrified of him, which brightens his afternoons somewhat, but for the most part, he wants to scream to the heavens where they can shove their dumbbells, and maybe punch them for good measure.

He sees Eve occasionally when he reports for “duty” and they flirt and banter. Q generally avoids Bond, still ashamed, for some stupid reason. 

Nothing ever happens. Bond fucks some people, just for the hell of it, but his heart isn’t really in it. Well, it never is—but.

It’s all very tame and it drives Bond mad. It’s an endless cycle of waking up hungover, and then there’s a car waiting for him because apparently nobody trusts him enough to drive with one arm, which is _ridiculous_ , and there are lots of green lights and no red ones and the lifts at HQ always ding just as he arrive. Then he’s made to do stretches and lifts and all sorts of other incredibly painful maneuvers, ordered by people who almost piss themselves anytime Bond bares his teeth because they know he could kill the lot of them in under three seconds.

After that, he is given respite in the form of a sling, cradling his dead arm to his chest, as close to a hug as he ever wants to be.

On the way out, he always looks for Q, who always drags his thin fingers through the air as he conducts the numbers, rebooting some economy somewhere, all the while perhaps muttering unhelpfully in the ear of some agent who isn’t Bond. He’ll catch Bond’s eye and quirk a small smile, and Bond will nod.

Doors keep opening on their own, though, and the lifts are always waiting, and the late afternoon London traffic is lovely, so at least Q is still on speaking terms with him. In his own way. (It’s very fitting, because it drives Bond mad. He thought they’d cleared up this apology thing, but apparently not.)

And when Bond arrives home, he eats and drinks. He sits in the silence and reads a book one-handed. His flat is bare and dark and lonely. No, not lonely, Bond makes his living in loneliness. It’s just—there’s too much safety.

He finds himself asking: Is this what being alive feels like? Is this what it feels like to be eons away from death, chasms away from the end? When you aren’t walking a high wire that’s wobbling beneath your feet? 

It’s dreadful.

So he drinks himself into a coma and passes out face-first, fully-dressed on his bed, and the next day, an alarm he never set (courtesy of Q, he’s sure) trumpets in the day, and he starts everything all over again.

He can, in fact, still shoot a gun—and here he’d been thinking he’d never have to go through marksman testing again. He scores a 90, and M has never looked more conflicted. Can’t fire an agent with a bad shoulder who still scores a 90 on marksmanship, can you?

After the test, he sits at a desk, back in his sling, waiting for Tanner to come officially tell him to bugger off for the day. That, or give him paperwork; M’s been threatening paperwork for a while, now.

“Impressive,” Eve says, coming round the corner. “Are you cleared yet?”

He shakes his head. “Something silly about following M’s orders.”

“That’s new,” Eve laughs. “Though I must say, I’m on his side this time. You are actually human, James.”

Bond doesn’t have an answer for that. He leans back in his chair, refusing to contemplate his humanity.

Tanner appears soon enough and does indeed tell him to bugger off—though in a much friendlier manner, and with an invitation to a golf match once Bond’s got his swing back—and Bond inclines his head to Eve in goodbye. 

He holds in a sigh as he heads for the lift…and, with a ding, it opens when he’s nearly three feet away. 

Bond freezes. The doors hang there, waiting. His mouth tightens. He feels the burn of a camera pointed at the back of his neck.

This is absurd. He may be human, but he is perfectly capable of _pressing the down button_. He turns on his heel and heads straight back down the hall, taking a pit stop where he knows Q is lurking.

And lurking he is. The video feed of the exact spot Bond had stood outside the lift is pulled up on one computer. Q’s back is to it now, but Bond knows that he’d been watching it only a moment before.

“Q,” Bond says.

Q glances over his shoulder, straightening his over-sized glasses, and not even bothering to look surprised. “Hmm?” he says.

“Stop apologizing,” Bond says, scowling.

“I’m sorry?” Q says. He cringes.

Bond refuses to laugh, even though he would love to laugh at Q. What a relief it would be, rather than holding his silence in this black hole of endless irritation and grudging admiration. But Q is too earnest, too annoyingly charming, to garner laughter.

“I can open doors myself, you know,” Bond says.

“You are a mystery,” Q says, shaking his head. “Are you really so unfamiliar with kindness?”

“This isn’t you being nice,” Bond accuses, “you’re just making yourself feel better. Didn’t we already discuss this?”

Q straightens a little and finally musters a little indignation. “I won’t apologize for being nice. I know that’s a field you’re rather unfamiliar with, and which you consider useless in your own line of work, but some people actually place value on friendliness.”

“We’re already friends,” Bond says, surprised—it sort of just falls out of him.

Q narrows his eyes, suspicious. “Do you have friends?”

“Just the one.”

Q turns away, stiff as a board, and Bond can see the color climbing up the back of his neck. Everyone always says Bond is an enigma, but for the life of him, he cannot fathom the numbers that infinitely multiply into Q, or the blush he’s trying so hard to hide, or this _friendship_ business. This should be a teasing conversation, a play of repartee, but now Q’s made everything far too serious. 

Bond would dearly love to laugh at Q and his show of melancholy.

“Just so you know, 007,” Q says softly, “I honestly cannot think of anything worse than being your only friend.”

Bond leaves. He cannot laugh at that.

X

The next day, there are three red lights. Bond counts them, one, two, three, and marvels at how Q can make him feel guilty even when he’s nine blocks away.

X


End file.
